Robert Reed - Marrow

I loved the man, thought Washen, in astonishment.

Then she said, “Neutrinos,” with a soft, curious voice. Looking up at him, she asked, “What did you see? Exactly. And how big was the flux?”

Pamir told everything, in crisp detail.

When Washen didn’t react, he changed topics. “As soon as you’re strong enough, we’re leaving. I don’t have any official ties to Perri or Quee Lee. But there might be an old security file somewhere, and Miocene’ll find it. We need a fresh place to hide. Which is partly what I’ve been doing these last days—”

“And then?”

“Bide our time. Be patient, and make ready’ He spoke in slow, certain tones, sounding like a man who had given this issue his full attention. “If we’re going to take back our ship, and keep it, then we’ll need to gather up the resources… the muscle and wisdom… to make things a little less impossible…”

Washen didn’t speak. She didn’t quite know what she was thinking. Her mind had never felt emptier or more useless. What passed for her focus drifted from her cupped hands to a long pained look at her son sitting in that beautiful jungle. Then she pried open her hands and the silver lid, staring again at the slow, relentless hands.

“We have allies,” Pamir allowed. “That’s also what I’ve been doing these last few days. Making contacts with likely friends…”

Again, she closed the clock and cupped her hands around its blood-warmed metal, and quietly, almost in a whisper, she said, “We didn’t have fusion reactors.”

Pardon?”

“When I left Marrow. Most of our energy came from geothermal sources.”

“You were gone for more than a century,” Pamir cautioned. “A lot can change in that little bite of rime.”

Perhaps. Perhaps.

“Judging by the evidence,” he continued. “I’d guess that the Waywards had to punch a wide hole up from Marrow. Since they were coming back along the old hole, theirs met mine, making their work easier. But still. Hundreds of kilometers dug in days, or hours. That’s why we didn’t have any warning. And that’s why they must have built all those fusion reactors, I’m guessing.”

She said, “Perhaps,” but shook her head regardless.

Again, Washen opened her hands. But this time she dropped the clock, and it landed on its edge with a soft click, and bending over to pick it up, she found herself staring at her son as he stared at a strange green world, his soft gray eyes betraying nothing—not a whispery sense of awe, much less the tiniest concern.

“What is it, Washen?”

She opened her mouth, and said nothing. “Tell me,” Pamir insisted.

“I think you’re wrong,” she heard herself saying. “Probably so. But where?”

Until she said it, she wasn’t certain what she would say.

“About the energy source. You’re mistaken. But that’s not what matters most.”

“What matters?”

She said, “Look at him.”

The ancient man stared between his feet, regarding the prisoner for a long moment. Then finally, with a measured disgust, he asked, “What should I see?”

“Locke is a Wayward. He still believes.”

Pamir gave a low snort, then said, “What he is is a fanatic. And he just doesn’t know any better.”

“He and Till were in the leech house,” she countered, shaking her head. “You know the place. Whisper anything, and your words are audible everywhere.”

Pamir waited.

“Ever since you woke me, it’s been gnawing at me.” She picked up the clock and coaxed her sarong to grow a pocket that would hold it securely. Then she looked at Pamir with bright certain eyes, telling him, “Till and Locke must have heard Diu talking. They wouldn’t have had any choice. His confession was thorough, and it didn’t leave room to maneuver. Everything the Waywards believe was invented by Diu. And that’s enough of a revelation to cripple the most robust faith.”

With more stubbornness than reason, Pamir said, “Your son’s a fanatic. And Tills an ambitious, pernicious climber.”

Washen barely heard him.

Narrowing her eyes, she thought aloud. “Those two Waywards heard everything, and it didn’t matter. Maybe they weren’t even surprised that Diu was alive. That’s not so outrageous. Waywards always knew everything that was happening on Marrow. No secrets for them. And after Diu was dead, they took Miocene home. Because she was needed. Because if they are the Builders reborn, and if they were going to retake the ship… then they required a high-ranking captain, like Miocene… someone who knows how to defeat the security systems, and the old Master…”

Pamir took a deep breath, let it leak out between his teeth, then offered, “Till is cynically using Diu’s dreamed-up religion, and Miocene is playing along—”

“No,” said Washen. “And maybe.” Then she pointed at Locke, saying again, “He believes. I know my son, and I understand, I hope, his capabilities. And he’s still very much a Wayward.”

Out of frustration, Pamir asked, “So what do you believe, Washen?”

“Diu told us…’ She closed her eyes, remembering what seemed to be only three days removed from her. “When he was first on Marrow, alone, he had a dream. The Builders and the hated Bleak came straight out of that dream…”

“Which means?”

“Maybe nothing,” she confessed. Then she shook her head and rose to her feet, saying, “If there’s any answer, it’s somewhere on Marrow. That’s where it’s waiting. And I think you’re absolutely wrong about our timetable up here.”

“Do you?”

“We wait, and the Waywards only grow stronger.”

Pamir looked between his feet again, staring at their prisoner with a new intensity, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Wait too long,” she warned, “and we’ll have to tear this ship apart with a total war. Which is why I think we need to do everything now. The first instant that it’s possible.”

“What we need to do,” he echoed.

Then he asked, “Like what?”

Washen had to laugh, quietly and sadly.

“You’re the Master Captain here,” she replied. “My only duty is to serve the Great Ship, and you.”

“There is a place,” Miocene reminisced, inviting her son and the other high-ranking Waywards to accompany her on a little journey. “It’s very high, and quite secure, and perfect for watching the burn.”

It would be a moment rich in symbolism, and more important, a moment of pure vindication.

But Till wore a doubting expression. He looked past Miocene, then said, “Madam,” and gave the smallest of bows. “Is this trip absolutely necessary? Considering the risks, I mean. And the thin benefits.”

“Benefits,” she echoed. “Did you count tradition?”

He knew better than to respond.

Miocene said, “No, you didn’t,” and laughed gently, her scorn barely showing. Then she told him, “This is a noble tradition. The Master Captain and her loyal staff stand on the open deck, watching as their ship turns in the wind.”

“Noble,” he replied, “and ancient, too.”

“We’ve done it on board this ship,” she promised. “Many, many times.”

What could he say?

Before any answer was offered, she added, “I appreciate what you’re thinking. That we might be too exposed. Too vulnerable. Open to some celestial disaster—”

“Not on the trailing hemisphere, madam. I know that much.”

“Then you’re worried about a closer, more emotional enemy.” Master or mother, her task was to lend confidence. To inspire, and hopefully, instruct. “No one else knows about this venture. There isn’t time to prepare an ambush. And believe me,” she added, a swollen hand lifting into the air between them, “I’m strong enough to defend us from any part of the ship, and anywhere on its enormous hull, too.”